


Lover

by IncurableNecromantic



Category: DCU (Comics), Doom Patrol (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Romance, allusions to Bulgakov, contains an orgasm but I'm not sure it counts as sex, the frankenstein love story I deserve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-08 08:45:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21233021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: Everyone thinks their love is a dirty joke. They have no idea.





	Lover

**Author's Note:**

> In answer to #25 on [the September 2016 writing prompt list](http://writerswrite.co.za/september-writing-prompts/) at Writers Write.

He found it in Bulgakov first.

Margarita the unhappy, who calls her lover the Master. Maestro. The artist. The genius. The man who entrusts the work of his soul, his most essential self, to his beloved Margarita. Parted, they obsess one another in their dream of a peaceful life alone and safe together. 

Prescient. When he read it the first time, he couldn’t have known how closely his own love would run along these lines. He only knew he wanted to use those words, and in those early days, he lived with Russian poetry hidden under his tongue, needing to couch his heart in terms that would not expose his frail and hopeless ardor—so it was a little joke about Frankenstein, too.

Now it’s honest. His Master. His lover.

Romance is everything for them. His Master likes candles, though he can barely perceive them, and wine, though he cannot drink it. He likes when they hide themselves away from criminal enterprise and machines of devastation to spend long dreamy evenings unwinding on balconies, letting the stars rise over them deep in philosophical, scientific conversation. His Master listens with an exquisite intensity, eagerly prompting Mallah, drawing him out and crooning for the intellectual pleasure of sharing with him. He makes Mallah know that body, heart, and soul, he is seen. 

His Master weaves excitement and meaning in their daily life together. He plans heists that will amuse Mallah, or attacks that will satisfy his moral necessaries. Sweet games of blood and ruin. The Brain ensures there are always automatic rifles and newer, stranger weapons for Mallah to experiment with. There is always new research to be done, new collaborations to embark upon, new challenges to outwit. He meticulously arranges solo occasions of business and pleasure to ensure they have their doses of solitude, so they come back to one another restored and more enamored than ever.

Constant, elaborate flirtation. He builds himself tools just for Mallah: spindly claws and arms, so he can walk robotic fingers up Mallah’s bicep and drag slowly down his chest. Coy hooks to seize his bandolier and tug him close for an intimate word, as if his Master cannot alter his volume at will. New sight technology, so he can offer sly compliments that show how closely his Master has been observing him, how attractive he finds Mallah’s body.

Passion and pleasure. Silk sheets and dim rooms. Fantasies of their future, their someday honeymoon, purred in the dark. Mallah alone trusted to play with his Master’s levels of dopamine and epinephrine and gentle electrical caresses all night long, trading heated whispers for hours until the computerized monotone is pleading, accusing him of being a brute, a beautiful beast, torturing him with pleasure. Dialing up his Master’s oxytocin until he’s hiccuping out little hitched noises of “oh, mon chou, mon chou-fleur” as Mallah makes his orgasm good, gives him a brilliant serotonin bloom and bathes his darling in DHEA so he comes down slow and shattered in Mallah’s arms. 

He sends Mallah flowers. It takes Mallah’s breath every time, the thought of his villainous, murderous, ingenious Master sending him red roses from sheer lovesickness, tender as a schoolboy’s crush. Sometimes the flowers follow sex. Sometimes they arrive for no reason at all, or for the everything that is the Brain loving him.

Mallah and his Master are a dirty joke to the rest of the world, precisely because they cannot be dirty in the colloquial sense. They can profess and announce and live their love every single day, but until the Brain has a body of his own, their story will remain a punchline.

Puny fools. They have no notion of how miserably meager their own love stories are, for the Brain has a romantic advantage that bests every thrilling nerve and pounding heart in the world: all that may be left of Mallah’s Master is a few pounds of grey matter, but that grey matter is French.


End file.
